


Heart & Soul

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Comedy, Day 7, Fate & Destiny, GW2020, M/M, Mentions of Death, Romance, chance & serendipity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Fate was having a shitty week, and Mickey and Ian aren't helping matters!For Gallavich Week 2020, day 7: Soulmates.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 100
Kudos: 160
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	1. Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doddz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doddz/gifts).



> For Doddz! She's red-penned my stuff for years, ever since the Lightening Debacle of 2018, and I want to say thank you. Our meeting was Serendipity!

Fate was having a shitty week. Well, the whole last month had been a clusterf*ck actually, but she was trying to block that all out and think positive. Look on what mortals called the bright side and find her bliss, as they like to say. She knew her damn bliss wasn’t going to be found chasing foolish mortals around the planet trying to get them to fall in love! After spending the last few millennia with them, she was pretty sure she’d never quite understand the human condition.

Her problems all started back when she’d still been working in the Death division. _The good old days_ , she thought nostalgically, escorting souls back to the source where they could travel and explore new paths. She’d been in that division for so long that, possibly, she’d gotten a little...overconfident in her ability to do her job, which had resulted in a screw-up that she’d never live down. As far as she was concerned though, there was room for discussion over whether she was the one solely to blame, but the big guy didn’t see it that way.

Turns out that if you missed one, just one, date with Death all Hell broke loose. _Literally_ , Hell had sent a complaint up the chain and Fate was out on her ass.

Apparently, she’d messed up the instructions she’d been given (she had a lot on her plate that day) and the human in question ended up living past his due date, which naturally caused a chain of events that led to her demotion to the Soulmate division. It’s not that this didn’t occasionally happen, since humans often wanted to spend more time in this reality than they’d signed up for, and would try to circumvent their departure. But when the outcome of one of them overstaying their welcome is that he runs for President and wins, that’s when someone’s head was going to roll.

And so she found herself trying to remind the tribunal that Fate doesn’t work alone. Other celestial beings influence human behavior as well--one in particular who made her blood boil just thinking about him--therefore, it was more a case of joint responsibility. But in the end, the decision was made that it was her job to see the transaction complete.

Now she was going to _quite possibly_ spend eternity trying to get mortals to pay attention to the signs she dropped like sledgehammers of destiny in their path. The signs they bumbled around ignoring, or worse, actively fighting. So it was that Fate’s first month of bringing soulmates together had not endeared her to humankind.

However, she’d had a modicum of success yesterday when two particularly fascinating idiots had gotten engaged immediately rather than observe the customary courtship rules. She’d been about to give herself a metaphorical pat on the back for paving the couple’s path to wedded bliss, when she received today’s assignment.

Garfield train station. Chicago. 8:45 am.

Because of the Free Will clause, Fate had only so much control over who ultimately fell in love. In her opinion, that left the humans with entirely too much say in how their love lives turned out, and it left Fate with entirely too little power when a location was all the information she had to work with.

The Fates kept a celestial database of sightings where they recorded different soulmate energy, hoping to build a bridge between mates who seemed destined to never find each other. That was one of the aspects she most appreciated about Death. It was non-discriminating. All humans got the chance to experience it, so they could move on to their next life. But soulmates aligning in time and space was pretty damn rare. While this made for epic storytelling, it didn’t bode well for Fate’s success rate.

Earlier in the week however, she’d spotted an aura of energy that, even as a newbie to the division, she recognized as legendary. The soft glow around him resembled a sunburst with hues ranging from violet to pale yellow. A rainbow that emanated from his head and hands. A healer.

He’d been crossing a busy city street, and Fate had stopped to watch as he moved aside for other people, letting them distract him from his purpose. She’d followed him to a coffee shop, watching his interactions with others and the way he seemed slightly separate, attempting to protect his energy from being invaded. The fuzzy edges of his aura gave away his lack of personal boundaries that others seemed comfortable taking advantage of.

What really caught her attention though was the intense red river that wove its way through the man’s soft aura, pulsing like a heartbeat, throbbing with life. The twining of his soulmate’s vibrant energy with his own.

Knowing this was important, she’d immediately gone to the database and hit the jackpot. Not only did she find the corresponding aura cataloged but she also learned that the other individual lived in the same city. They were practically neighbors but hadn’t yet found each other. Deciding she could begin to redeem herself by bringing these two together, she’d requested a meeting location.

So at 8:45 Wednesday morning on a crisp spring day, she found herself hovering above the outdoor train platform at Garfield Station. Since she’d chosen not to inhabit a mortal form, she went unnoticed as one of her targets jogged toward the station. He dodged the sprinkling of people on the stairway up to the platform, dropping some impressive language along the way. She had absolutely no doubt that he was the other half of her assignment because the closer he got to the platform, the brighter his energy got. The brilliant red that vibrated from his chest and abdomen crackled like shards of ruby glass, ready for conflict and passion. A life force that demanded action. A fighter.

On the surface, his energy was so different from his soulmate, with his need for security and peace, but within this man’s blood red energy was a soft river that beamed like a rainbow. Fate was actually a little excited to see the transformation of their auras when they finally became aware of each other, and suspected she might need sunglasses when they actually touched.

An incoming train screeched to a halt at the same time as the man’s feet hit the platform. She could see his face scrunch up in anger and she sighed. Humans didn’t do well when their emotions leaked through their expressions and body language. It gave others the wrong impression and created unnecessary controversy. She was relieved to be above all those messy feelings.

Several people exited the train once the doors opened, and her angry young man cursed at a man in a business suit who stopped directly in his path to answer his phone, forcing him to sidestep through a group of teenagers.

Determined, she decided. But hopefully no match for Fate. She dropped a suggestion into the subconscious of the train’s conductor and the doors closed 30 seconds before scheduled departure and two seconds before the man arrived at the train. He punched the window then stepped back as the train chugged forward.

She could see his lips moving as more expressions of anger erupted, and Fate turned her attention to another man who had just arrived on the platform from the opposite end as the train left the station. Her healer walked slowly toward one of the metal benches, his uniform freshly pressed, backpack slung over his shoulder and attention firmly on his phone screen.

She metaphorically tapped her lip in contemplation while cursing the invention of the cell phone. Humans no longer paid any attention to their surroundings, so dating apps had become a common tool in the Soulmate division. But Fate would sooner spend eternity in _the big down under_ than spend it scrolling through Tinder pics encouraging her humans to swipe right.

The brunet appeared to agree with her as he stormed to the metal seat and flopped down with high drama, glaring at the arrival sign rather than his phone screen. Momentarily, Fate felt a tingle of affection as she watched the storm of scarlet energy zinging around his body, looking for a place to land. It must be exhausting to have this much life force but no way to channel it. Well, if she could get the red haired phone zombie to sit on the bench next to her angry little man, problem solved.

The redhead stopped several feet from the bench, dropping his backpack to the ground at his feet. The two of them were so close but might as well have been miles and millennia apart because neither was aware of anything outside their own experience.

While she was responsible for paving their way to true love, Fate’s hands were tied to a certain degree. Because of the damn Clause, they ultimately got to choose, which left her dropping bloody hints left, right and center.

Suppressing her annoyance, she noticed the redhead hadn’t properly closed his backpack, so she sent a gust of wind through the platform, just strong enough to knock it over and send the apple from his lunch rolling toward the bench. She held her breath as the brunet watched the apple stop near his boot while the redhead continued to swipe his phone screen oblivious to his soulmate’s presence.

 _Come on_ , she chanted. _Look at each other! Get out of your heads and look at each other!_

She knew that was all it would take because the world was full of energy that trickled with negativity and animosity, so seeing the extraordinary potential with genuine soulmate energy made her demotion to Soulmates seem a little less unjust.

But the whistle of an incoming train distracted both men. The dark haired man’s fingers paused on their way to the apple and he looked up at the train barreling into the station, forgetting immediately that he was going to help the other man with his fruit.

“Bout fucking time,” he complained, shooting out of his seat.

Fate spun around, senses on high alert as she scanned the platform because the train was three damn minutes early! She knew these conductors treated their schedules like gospel, so something else was afoot. Her gaze drifted to the large trash bin beyond the concrete barrier, then behind her toward the stairwell, certain her nemesis was somewhere close.

By then, the red haired man had scooped up his apple, rubbing it against his canvas pants as he moved toward the train. The doors were open, and the brunet had taken an aisle facing seat. His arms crossed, knees spread wide, booted feet planted in the walkway. Apparently no one was going to enter his personal space uninvited.

Meanwhile, the redhead maneuvered between a couple other riders until he could grasp the handrail with his free hand. His other hand was heavy with his backpack, which swayed close to the brunet’s knees. If only he were forced a little closer...

Focusing her attention on the train doors, Fate willed them to stay open and give more riders time to enter, but it was taking more effort than ordinary to keep them open and her celestial intuition went off like a firecracker. _He_ was definitely here! She could _feel_ it. Goddamn it, as if she didn’t have enough to deal with!

In the short battle for the train doors, not only did no else enter and force the redhead closer to his mate, but a woman exited the train leaving a vacant seat. After glancing at the other standing passengers to determine that they weren’t going to claim the empty seat, the redhead dropped down into it, tucking his backpack between his heavy medical shoes and tucking his nose into his damn phone screen. A glance at the brunet confirmed that he was taking this opportunity to catch up on some shut eye.

The train began moving along the track, but Fate remained on the platform knowing that she would now have to learn these human’s patterns and orchestrate another encounter, since the system would only offer her one predetermined meeting, which she’d just used. With a sigh, she watched the train depart leaving her alone on her side of the platform.

The other side of the platform, however, wasn’t empty.

Chance stood across the now empty train tracks, smirking at her. Their eyes met and sparks flew, literally zinging off the walls around them. Their metaphysical staring contest roused the lone homeless man sleeping near the restroom doors. He quickly gathered up his blankets and hustled out of the station.

“We meet again,” Chance said dramatically.

“Says the super villain.”

All that comment got out of her nemesis was another smirk. “So you’ve missed me then.”

“I’d rather sit down with the Devil.”

“Ouch, they’ve given you claws, I see.”

“Sheathed, for now.” She tamped down on the unearthly vexation swirling around her before she ended up actually producing her claws. 

“Enjoying soulmate duty?”

“Loving it,” she ground out, refusing to dwell on the outcome of her last encounter with the celestial power. “Pun intended.”

“I see your success rate has carried over from your previous position.” He waved his hand in the direction of the long departed train and her mortal responsibilities.

Fate was the first to break eye contact, certain that she was about to fly across the open train tracks and start a war the heavens haven’t seen since the battle over the human soul.

“Well, since my work here is done,” Chance chuckled, clearly thinking he’d gotten the upperhand in this situation. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around…”

 _Game on, motherf*cker_ , she thought as Chance left her alone in the station to plot the destiny of two star crossed lovers. Even if it left Chicago in ashes, she’d just made it her mission to bring them together.


	2. Destiny

Mickey Milkovich entered Starbucks like he was preparing for battle since it was the last place in Chicago he’d willingly go. But he’d given in this morning because he seemed unable to manage the simple task of arriving at work on time, and he was getting sick and goddamn tired of explaining to Barry, head of mall security, why he couldn’t get his ass to work by 9:00am even once this week. The train was late, the alarm didn’t go off, and now the coffee pot spewed black sludge that even a diehard drinker like himself couldn’t stomach. He was starting to think it was some sort of cosmic joke.

So he’d gotten up a little early this morning, determined to start his day right, by giving himself time to shower, shave, eat breakfast and drink his damn coffee. Instead of getting out of the shower to the aroma of coffee though, he'd stood naked in his bathroom as his brain tried to refuse the information his nose was giving him. Burnt coffee!

Now he was in line behind every asshole in the city who was in the mood for a soy fucking latte. He just wanted his travel mug filled with something strong that he could then add a shit ton of sugar and cream too. _Then_ he wanted to arrive at the train station a minute BEFORE the train not a minute AFTER.

Glaring at the back of the guy ahead of him in line, he willed the dude’s uniformed ass to hurry up so Mickey could be on his way. He frowned a little as the guy’s long fingers combed through his red hair, disappearing for a second in the thick sweep of copper before massaging his neck. The hand dropped back down to his side, and Mickey blinked in realization that he’d stood there transfixed by each movement, momentarily forgetting how much the world pissed him off.

He contemplated mainlining some caffeine as the line shuffled forward and Uniform was finally next up.

“What can I get ya?” the teeny bopper behind the counter asked the man.

“Do you have a dark roast?” Uniform asked.

Mickey’s skin tingled with an electrical charge that shot through each of the cells in his body aligning them for the first time in his life. Before he could come to terms with the fact that this man’s voice was the reason for it, the asshole behind him started yapping loudly into his phone.

“The win odds on Second Chance are 5/2, pay out is between $7 and $7.80,” he bellowed and Mickey turned around to glare at him as the meaning of the words penetrated his caffeine-less fog. The guy was taking bets on the horses? In the middle of fucking Starbucks?

Mickey’s gaze raked the man in a second flat. Long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, the single line of silver running through it a perfect match to his pale eyes and skin. He was dressed like he couldn’t decide if he was an aging rocker or a magician, and his attention was now on Mickey.

“Best odds guaranteed,” he said to whoever was on the other line, voice a little quieter now. “Fate’s Puppet is a long shot.”

Torn between annoyance and interest, Mickey had an urge to lay down some cash on this horse, Second Chance. He nudged his chin at the guy. “Fixed bet?” he asked.

The man smiled, revealing perfect teeth and dubious charm. “Fate’s a drifter.”

While Mickey considered putting money on Fate’s Puppet if the odds were good since no one was backing her, the barista called out to him.

“Excuse me, sir? You’re up.”

“I know how a line works,” he snapped, turning away from the bookie as the urge to bet passed as quickly as it came. “And don’t call me sir.”

The kid nodded, eyes big as Mickey set his to-go cup on the counter.

“Dark roast, and leave a lotta room for cream.”

“Um…”

“Um, what?” Mickey’s voice lowered.

“The last customer finished it, so we’re brewing more.”

Goddamn it, Uniform had taken all the dark roast. “What do you have ready?”

“Decaf,” he whispered, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Mickey licked his lips, giving into the knowledge that he was going to be late again. “Fine, I’ll wait for the dark roast.”

As he completed the transaction, his mind drifted to the guy who’d hogged all the damn coffee and put him in this predicament. Stepping away from the counter, he scanned the coffee shop, looking for a tall ass ginger in a medical uniform but came up empty. Mind returning to the thought that he was going to have to listen to Barry whine about tardy employees, he dismissed whatever weird reaction he’d had to the guy’s voice.

Ian Gallagher ran his hands under the air dryer, shaking them vigorously to speed the process. His coffee order was probably waiting for him, and his partner Sue would definitely be wondering what was taking him so long. It was their turn to pick up coffee for the station house, so she’d dropped him at the door then went in search of a place to wait with the rig like she'd done every morning this week. As he left the men’s room, he spotted his eight tall coffee cups tucked into two cardboard drink holders waiting at the pick-up counter.

Recalling everyone’s drink orders, he veered toward the condiment bar with the beverages, needing to add cream to a couple of the coffees. A dark haired man had just finished topping his to-go cup with cream before tearing into a stack of sugar packets, his tattooed fingers working quickly.

Ian balanced the coffees, so he could see his wristwatch then glanced at the rig parked across the street. Sue’s arm rested on the window frame, eyes focused on the coffee shop, probably starting to get impatient. They were cutting it close if they were going to make the start of the weekly staff meeting, and he started to feel anxiety spike.

Releasing all the air in his lungs, he focused on the calming effects of belly breathing like he’d trained himself to do. Working as a paramedic could really mess with a person’s mental state and his needed extra attention, so he practiced relaxation techniques regularly. Closing his eyes, he inhaled, filling his lungs with oxygen.

And an unfamiliar scent.

His eyes popped open and he stared at the back of the dark head in front of him, certain that it was coming from this man. He shifted to look left and right, determining that no one else was standing close enough to see him, then he tipped his head forward about two inches and inhaled again.

Oh!

Ian's eyes closed again, giving all his attention to the experience. It wasn't even a specific smell that he could detect, other than the recent scrubbing the man had given himself if the soap and aftershave were any indication. It was something else. Something that made Ian feel warm and relaxed.

“ _We got a code P, Ian!_ ” Sue’s voice crackled from the two way radio attached to his chest. He grinned, but with his hands still full, he was unable to hit the radio’s button to tell her she’d have to hold it until they reached the station house. The man in front of him had finished dousing his coffee in raw sugar and moved a little to the left to take a sip.

Absently, Ian set the two drink holders on the stand, attention back on the man’s scent. He opened his mouth to speak, unsure what exactly he was going to say, maybe ask the name of his cologne. Anything to get him to turn toward Ian, so he could have a face to go with the intoxicating smell.

“ _I repeat code P, Ian!_ ”

As the dark haired man made his way toward the exit, Ian’s hand hovered over his call button, uneasily. Certain that he was supposed to be doing something. The feeling was so intense that he looked around the shop in confusion, hoping for guidance, but it was just a regular workday morning for the other patrons.

The man held the door partly ajar, while an imposing black woman in a vintage trench coat blocked his exit. She looked like she’d stepped out of an early 20th century speakeasy and her angry gaze flew around the coffee shop, clearly searching for someone. The dark eyes stopped briefly on Ian then landed on some dude with a tightly wound ponytail, who also looked like he belonged in a different decade.

They shared a heated look and Ian was glad to not be the recipient of her anger. By the time he tore his eyes away from the couple, the dark haired guy had shoved past her, exiting out to the street.

“ _Ian!_ ”

Certain he’d missed doing something important, Ian muttered into his chest. “Shoulda gone before we left, Sue.”

*********

Mickey rubbed the bridge of his nose, vaguely wondering if one day he’d rub it right off his face from the endless shit he had to endure trying to keep the dumpiest mall in downtown Chicago from becoming a flophouse.

“Ketamine?” he asked.

“That’s what he said before passing out.” Charlie’s lined face looked up at Mickey from where he squatted. He’d been working this beat longer than Mickey by about two lifetimes, but he’d never expressed interest in moving up the corporate ladder from mall cop to assistant manager mall cop, the title Mickey currently held. “Kept telling me he was seeing spirits floating around the mall. Bickering over souls or some bullshit like that.”

They shared a look before returning their attention to the man spread out on the worn tiled floor between Foot Locker and Build-a-Bear. His unkempt beard covered most of his face and his body was swallowed up in the oversized hooded sweater.

“Looks like he’s in the k-hole now. Fucking comatose. You call the medics?”

“Should be here any minute.”

Mickey nodded, thankful that he’d dodge the addict bullet, which was a goddamn miracle considering his upbringing. Instead, he was completely fucking with the Milkovich family name by working security in a mall where special K was the letter of choice these days.

“You got him comfortable? Checked his pulse?”

“Strong.”

“Loosen his hoodie a bit then we’ll get him into recovery position.”

Charlie did as he was told, slightly gnarled finger running along the kid’s throat to pull the material away. “I think he just passed out, but you know, better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah, we ain’t taking the hit if something goes down.”

“ _Mickey?_ ” A voice piped up from the radio dangling from his hand. Fucking Barry.

“Yeah,” he said into the speaker. “What?”

“ _As soon as the ambulance arrives, I need you in the surveillance room. Pronto._ ”

“Sure.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but Mickey wasn’t in the mood to reprimand him for insubordination because he fucking agreed and wasn’t above a little insubordination of his own. Barry knew that the reason Mickey was so good at his job was because he didn’t give two shits about people’s feelings when they were acting like dickheads, and Barry wasn’t the exception.

When the nearest mall doors opened a moment later, the two paramedics who were hauling a stretcher spotted the unconscious man immediately. The chick in front waved, and Charlie stood up, taking the lead. She started asking questions immediately.

“Did you see the patient lose consciousness?”

“Yes,” Charlie began. “I was helping him down from the escalator when--”

“ _Milkovich!_ ” His radio squawked at him again, and he moved a few feet away, tucking himself behind an ad board, so his conversation wouldn’t interfere with the medic’s questions.

“What?” he spit into the speaker, on the verge of telling Barry where he could shove his goddamn two way radio.

“ _Now the damn IR sensor in the food court’s on the fritz._ ”

Charlie wasn’t the only one who’d been around since the shopping mall heydays of the 90s, Barry’d seen his share of food courts and department stores come and go, but he’d never gotten the hang of technology. Apparently that was Mickey’s responsibility.

“What’s the problem?” He was thinking about getting an Orange Julius when he went to check the sensor.

“ _The image stream is wonky._ ”

“Did you reboot the system?” Mickey was not looking forward to Barry’s learning curve the day they got facial recognition software.

His eyes drifted to the scene with the paramedics. The woman was still talking to Charlie, her ponytail swaying as she gestured to their patient. All he could see of the other medic were his blue gloved hands as they spread open the canvas medical bag. While Barry bitched about the latest system update, Mickey studied those hands and the feeling of deja vu that accompanied them, like he’d seen them do this exact thing before.

Ian dropped the medic kit to the ground next to the stretcher, while Sue performed the interview with mall security. He unzipped the top compartment, pulling out the Naloxone nasal spray, while listening to the answers to Sue’s questions and prepping for a possible overdose.

They were actually done their shift for the day but had been literally driving by the mall when the call came in, so Ian was tired and now he was also having trouble focusing. The other security guard had moved behind a swimsuit ad board just as they arrived, but Ian could still clearly hear the voice coming out of the guard’s radio complaining about unnecessary software upgrades.

Once Ian determined that the patient’s airway was clear, he quickly checked that his chest was fully expanding and found no respiratory depression, so he began to slowly shift his thin body into the recovery position. But the guy’s eyes popped open, wide and staring beyond Ian’s shoulder where he squatted beside him.

Immediately, his breathing quickened and his body went rigid. Ian slotted the nasal spray between his fingers and gripped the man’s head to keep his still. While he did this, the voice on the radio calmed down, and all Ian could now hear was a quiet male voice murmuring something. Whatever riled the patient seemed to pass then and he calmed, eyes drifting shut.

“ _And don’t stop for a damn smoothie, Milkovich!_ ”

The return of the voice not only startled Ian, it caused another reaction in his patient. When his eyes opened, Ian noted the constriction of his pupils where they formed pinpoints at the center of the hazel circles. His fingers gripped Ian’s forearm through his uniform.

“Can you tell me your name?” Ian asked.

“They're fighting over your soul,” the man whispered, tongue licking at parched lips, fingers surprisingly strong on his arm.

“Sue, he’s conscious.”

“He talking about souls again?” the security guard asked. “He was going on about that earlier.”

“Hallucinations,” Ian said. “I’d say he’s ready for transport though.”

His partner thanked the guard, then assisted Ian in moving the patient onto the stretcher. As they raised the bed, the guard who’d been on the radio stepped out from behind the ad board, walking quickly away from the scene. His compact body slightly rigid like he was pissed off and someone or something was about to feel his wrath. Ian stared at the back of his head, deja vu sweeping over him like he'd seen the man do that exact thing before.

“Hey Mick, wait up,” the older security guard yelled, snapping Ian out of his daze. “I want a smoothie too.”

Once again, something disturbed the patient and he tried to sit up on the stretcher. “They’re watching you,” he said urgently, still apparently hallucinating even though his eyes seemed strangely aware.

Ian rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “Easy now.”

“Have you no shame?" Fate demanded, turning away from the poor human who was being transported out the mall doors, so she could give Chance the full power of her glare.

Naturally, it rolled off his immortal shoulders. “I didn’t force the man to ingest a dissociative drug while window shopping.”

"Maybe not, but you didn’t hesitate to use it against him. Is this all just a damn game to you?”

“Of course it is,” he shrugged. “Why do you insist on taking it seriously?”

She could feel that unreasonable venom building again. This creature got under her metaphorical skin with his blaise confidence and indifference to his actions. As though nothing mattered!

“Because, unlike you, _my_ goal is not to thrust the universe into chaos and disorder.”

“No, _your_ goal is to pre-plan their lives.” He waved his arms wide, gesturing the length of the sparsely populated mall. “Micro-manager.”

“Destroyer!” she hissed, feeling her fangs protrude. “At least I offer possibilities that will enhance their existence.”

“Possibilities that have been carefully mapped out for them,” he paused to give her a condescending look as though he held the winning card. “Which fails to honor _free will_.”

Those two words plagued her daily. How easy her job would be if that tiny sub-section of the contract did not exist. One simple clause that ruined everything because mortals apparently _chose_ to sleepwalk through their time on Earth, and she was forced to rely on subtle whispers to wake them up.

“Their world is predictable but not predetermined.”

She wanted, needed, to wipe the confident smirk off his face because it was _her_ fate to spend eternity constantly cleaning up the random turds Chance left behind. “You take no responsibility!”

“That’s the point!” he hissed, swooping in closer to get in her face. “Free. Fucking. Will. They have choice. My actions do not determine their actions nor should yours.”

“They cannot circumvent their f*cking Destiny!”

“Destiny is where they end up and that’s on them,” he said firmly, and Fate stomped her metaphorical foot in frustration. If the universe demanded randomness and humans had free will, really then what was the point of Fate? Was she...unnecessary?

***********

Mickey tossed the stack of mail onto the coffee table along with his keys, smokes and phone, then flopped down onto the couch with a beer and slice of day old pizza. He surfed randomly for something to watch, not really caring if he found anything. When he tired of that, he tossed the remote onto the coffee table next to his foot, and the stack of mail caught his attention. He toed the junk mail aside, recognizing the shape and color of the familiar utility bills but paused to frown at one of the envelopes. It was square, pale yellow and clearly made of some fancy paper.

Sucking down some of his beer, he reached for the envelope noting that his full name was printed out in an almost flowery script. Someone had taken the time to send him something using fucking calligraphy? He flipped it over looking at the sender information, but he didn’t recognize the northside Chicago address.

With the beer bottle tucked between his jean-clad thighs, he pulled a flip knife out of his pocket, shoving the edge into the fold along the top of the envelope and slicing it open. The card inside matched the envelope in color and quality. He tapped it onto his lap, grabbing his beer bottle by the neck as he read the fancily typed out words.

_YOU ARE JOYFULLY INVITED TO THE WEDDING OF_   
_CALEB SMITH_   
_&_   
_TONY MARKOVICH_   
_SATURDAY, MAY THIRTIETH AT FOUR O’CLOCK_   
_LOWER BALLROOM, HILTON GARDEN INN_   
_CHICAGO_   
_RECEPTION AND DANCE TO FOLLOW_

Mickey flipped the card over but there was no “just kidding” written on the back, only an elaborate stamp of the two men’s initials intertwined with some fucking leaves or some shit. Frowning, he set it and the now empty beer on the coffee table and headed out to the balcony with his smokes and his phone.

The sun was just setting, and he watched the South Side quiet down for the night as he sucked on his cigarette and contemplated why he was being invited to the wedding of a guy he’d slept with once. A long fucking time ago.

Sure, their paths had crossed periodically when Mickey needed the cops to come pick up some jackass. Tony Markovich covered the beat where his mall was located, which had actually been the reason Mickey ended up in the guy’s bed three years ago. They’d recognized each other at a club, and by the time he’s spotted the cop, Mickey’d drunk his way through a good chunk of his paycheck.

It had seemed like a great idea to give the guy his flirty eyes then bang until the sun came up, bringing with it his natural inclination to fuck off without much of a goodbye. He’d failed to think about the consequences until Officer Markovich showed up a couple weeks later to arrest two gangbangers selling weed out of the back of Build-A-Bear.

However, he’d discovered that the guy’s fucking decency wasn’t a show he’d been putting on. Mickey had felt like a douchebag for sneaking out because Tony had smiled hugely at seeing Mickey, seemingly okay with what went down between them. When he’d tried to summon up something that might loosely be called an apology, Tony had waved him off, explaining that he had met someone.

When a sunny, content smile had taken over his face, Mickey had felt envy. Not over the cop himself but over the sheer joy the guy was experiencing because of another person. It felt like something that was meant to happen for Mickey, which was ridiculous since he could barely tolerate people, even Tony who seemed like a decent fucking person. There was simply no way that some dude existed who would make Mickey want to send out his own wedding invitations.

Yet in a month, the two of them were making it official, and for some bizarre reason, Markovich thought Mickey would want to witness that shit go down. Wedding vows and boring ass speeches. Cake and free booze. That gave him pause since he’d done worse for free drinks.

Flicking a thumb over his phone screen, he brought up his contacts wondering if there was a single dude in the list who wouldn’t make him regret issuing an invitation to go as his date. His thumb paused over Rocco’s name, enjoying the image of showing up to the fucking Hilton with a guy whose tattooed face was the least of his questionable physical attributes. Then he remembered how fucking useless he was in the sack. The guy wouldn’t be able to find a prostate in a goddamn prostate haystack.

He scrolled past Luke and Lance, mouthwatering twins he’d picked up on different nights not realizing they were different guys. Getting involved in that any further than he had was not gonna happen no matter how jacked the pair of them were. He’d just about given up when Byron’s name caught his eye. The guy was low key annoying but he didn’t seem to mind when Mickey pushed him around, plus he had wheels and knew what the fuck to do with all the snooty cutlery that would undoubtedly be on the table.

Perfect.

**********

Ian set the bucket of chicken and coleslaw on the kitchen table. “SUPPER!” he yelled at the three remaining siblings who still lived under the same roof as him.

Grabbing a chicken leg, he shuffled through the pile of mail that someone had brought in and left on the counter top, spotting his own name in some fancy handwriting. He shoved the leg into his mouth, sinking his teeth into the meat and wiping his hand on a napkin. The envelope looked fancy and it felt wrong defiling it with greasy fingers.

Ripping open the envelope, he pulled out the card inside which had more fancy writing.

_YOU ARE JOYFULLY INVITED TO THE WEDDING OF_   
_CALEB SMITH_   
_&_   
_TONY MARKOVICH_   
_SATURDAY, MAY THIRTIETH AT FOUR O’CLOCK_   
_LOWER BALLROOM, HILTON GARDEN INN_   
_CHICAGO_   
_RECEPTION AND DANCE TO FOLLOW_

Ian felt a pang reading the invitation. Caleb had been one of his many failed relationships. He wasn’t much for flings, more into serial monogamy even when it clearly wasn’t a good fit. He just didn’t like to be alone, certain that he was supposed to be with someone rather than playing the field.

Dropping the chicken leg onto the napkin just as his brothers stomped into the kitchen, he glared at Carl when he yanked the card from his fingers.

“What’s this?” he asked not put off by the idea of getting it covered in grease. “Woah, that dude you shacked up with for a couple months is getting hitched.”

“Yeah, I can read,” Ian snapped, grabbing the card back.

“You gonna go?”

Was he? Did he have any residual feelings for Caleb? Nope, he honestly couldn’t even remember what he’d felt during their time together. Mostly distracted from his overall discontent at the time and possibly a little bored if he was being honest.

“You should,” Liam piped up from behind him where he was getting a bottle of soda from the fridge. “Been moping around since breaking up with whatshisname. The hairdresser.”

“Barber,” Ian corrected, eyes following his brother to the table.

“Whatever,” he replied, pouring each one of them a tall glass. “You’ll need a date though. No one goes to a wedding alone.”

“I’m sure they do, Liam. People hook up at weddings.”

“How many weddings have you been to?” the kid challenged.

“Um, two.”

“Did you hook up at either of them?”

“Well, no. I was seven at one of them and the other one was with Caleb actually.”

“Right, so you need me to keep you from making a fool of yourself.”

Ian laughed as he flopped down into the chair across from his brother. “Fine. I’ll bring a date.”

It actually felt better to contemplate going if he had a date because it was bound to be awkward even though he’d seen Caleb at a couple of ball tournaments since their breakup. It was, in fact, at one of those games that Caleb had met Tony, and Ian had gotten to watch them spend the game flirting and obviously falling for each other.

“Got a dude in mind?” Carl asked around the chicken breast he’d covered in gravy.

“Actually...no.” He’d been in a seriously long dry spell, finding flaws with guys he’d never noticed before. How they ate their chicken for instance. “Get a napkin. Who raised you?”

“No one?”

“Don’t tell Fi that when she calls next time.”

“What about that dancer?” Liam suggested. “He seemed civilized.”

“He doesn’t use his turn signal.”

“Huh?” Carl said, gravy dripping down his chin onto his t-shirt.

“Like never. He makes right and left turns without signalling.”

Both of his brothers stared at him, but he just shrugged.

“What about that guy Vee set you up with?” Liam tried again. "From the drug company."

“He ate food off my plate.”

“Without asking?” Liam asked and Ian nodded. “Not cool.”

“Exactly.”

“Hard to find a good man.” Carl gave him a sympathetic look, but Liam wasn’t to be deterred.

“What about that dating app guy?”

“Cole?” Ian shrugged. They’d gone to a concert together but there’d been no attraction, so they’d spent the night getting fucked up instead of fucked. Ian had enjoyed himself immensely though. “That’s actually a great idea.”


	3. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I have given my devoted beta the day off (wink wonk), no one's eyes but mine own have read this and they are in no condition to find typos, so until such time as they are, please pretend that each typo is a code and if you find them all, you'll unlock the secret message. Good luck!

Fate was doing some metaphorical pacing and wondering how many human weddings she’d have to attend before managing to get herself transferred out of Soulmates and into a division that didn’t suck the life out of her immortal soul.

Speaking of life sucking immortal souls, Chance had yet to show up and they were almost an hour into this particular wedding ceremony. She scanned the banquet hall, gaze roaming over the 150 guests including the ones she was most interested in.

Cole, the man Ian brought with him to the wedding, sniffled into an embroidered handkerchief, the tears in his kohl-lined eyes hidden behind the black netting attached to his beret. Ian’s arm rested on the back of the man’s chiavari chair, allowing his date to use the redhead’s shoulder for solace.

Despite the somewhat intimate position the two men were in, Fate couldn’t detect any real intimacy between them. Cole’s normally adventurous self-assurance was subdued in the wake of the tender vows being exchanged by the grooms, but she approved of Ian’s choice for the evening because his ability to access all types of energy made him vulnerable to manipulation and his date didn’t appear to be interested in using that to his advantage unlike many other people she'd encountered.

Across the aisle and several rows back, Mickey and his date, Byron, sat with almost rigid distance between them. Neither man’s energy seemed particularly interested in connecting. Mickey’s energy was internally focused, while the other man’s attention was on everyone else. Clearly, this was the beginning of a date from hell.

With Chance’s free will reminder on replay in her mind, Fate had focused her energy on getting the two men invitations to the same wedding, but she had not intervened in their decision about who they invited to accompany them. However, it appeared to work in her favor anyway since neither had invited a potential rival. Feeling a moment of positivity, she turned her attention back to the front of the room where the grooms were just completing their vows.

“Shall we lay odds on how long until they divorce?”

She might have bristled at the sound of that villainous voice as it floated over her shoulder, but she wasn’t surprised by it since she’d been fully expecting him to show up. This type of event was a hotbed of potential chaos for him to sink his talons into.

“Maybe start a betting pool with everyone in the division,” Chance suggested when she ignored him. She could feel him move closer, pushing not only her buttons but also her boundaries. “What? Are you rooting for them?”

“I’d root for Satan if it meant you’d lose,” she spit out, then quickly sent a mental apology up to the Big Guy.

“Well, he’s been in a long term relationship for eons, so I wouldn’t take that bet.” He chuckled lightly, once again enjoying himself while she seethed with unearthly injustice. “Aww, aren’t they sweet?”

The officiant had just proclaimed the two men husbands, and they shared a fairly chaste kiss. It was clear to her why the grooms had selected each other as there was potential for harmony, but the blond man’s peaceful muted energy was going to be slowly crushed by the selfish, creative energy of his partner if they didn’t work on some boundaries of their own.

She wanted to cheer for them, and put her money on a 50 year union, just to show Chance that his jaded approach was wrong, but she honestly didn’t see herself winning that bet. Instead she ignored the dark horse hovering at her shoulder and clapped along with the crowd of wedding guests as the grooms made their way down the aisle and out the hotel’s front doors.

The reception would be starting in an hour, and she had to make sure that Chance didn’t f*ck with all the groundwork she’d laid to ensure her soulmates actually met tonight. Despite the metaphysical identity crisis she was going through, the one thing she didn’t doubt was that the two men she’d been following belonged together. They had found each other through many lifetimes, despite war and bigotry and goddamn chance. They’d find each other again, and when they did, it would prove to Chance, and herself, that love wasn’t all a cosmic game. That what they were doing meant something.

The reception hall buzzed with people and music and alcohol as everyone waited for the newlyweds to join them. It looked exactly how Ian had imagined a typical reception would look. A sea of circular tables draped in white cloth and dotted with excessive cutlery and flower arrangements. The lone rectangular table at the front of the room awaited the two grooms and their wedding party. To the left were a set of French doors leading to the Hilton’s terrace and gardens. To the right was the fully stocked open bar and Ian’s current destination.

One of the two bartenders stepped forward when Ian arrived, offering a friendly nod. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“Could I get a beer and...” Ian moved in closer so he could lower his voice just a little, “sex on the beach?”

His shoulders stiffened a little at the sound of an amused chuckle. Someone had stepped up to the bar beside him, tapping the bartop to get the attention of the second bartender.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” the man said, then he turned his head toward Ian and smiled.

It was a small smile, just a slight upturn of his full lips that released a maze of crinkles along the edges of his eyes, softening his face and intensifying the blue to an almost unnatural degree. But those were things that Ian wouldn’t realize until later.

At that moment, he could only stare into the eyes that were looking back at him as something electric zipped between them, sending a warm current through his body and stealing his breath with each thump of his heart. His abs tightened in anticipation like his body knew something that his mind didn’t. Unsure what exactly was happening, he felt overwhelmed by the significance of his reaction to this man.

Yet, he never wanted it to end, feeling certain that the depth and breadth of the moment had ruined him and a return to his life prior to this would be the greatest disappointment he’d ever experience.

But life showed up anyway.

“Are you going to Bogart that bevvy, Galla-grrrrr?”

Ian turned his head slowly to look at the man who was now pressed against his arm, chin resting on his shoulder and perfectly manicured fingers skipping along his tie. The plummet back to real life was indeed harsh.

Cole reached for his fruity drink, bringing the straw to his lips and sucking without peeling himself off of Ian’s arm. “It’s game time, bitch.”

“What?” Ian was having trouble processing and he quickly looked back at the blue eyes, but they were gone and so was the man attached to them. He spun around searching the ballroom, unreasonably afraid he’d never see him again--except he wasn’t even sure he’d gotten a good enough look at the man that he’d recognize him.

“Game time!” Cole repeated, scooping Ian’s beer off the bartop and shoving it into his hand. “Mr. and Mr. are about to make their grand entrance and I did some reconnaissance to figure out where _this_ fine ass,” he paused to wiggle his silk covered behind, “is sitting.”

“You did?” Ian was still running his eyes over the people milling around, so Cole grabbed his hand and tugged him toward a table in the back corner near the exit to the restrooms.

“Ta da!” They’d stopped at a table with seating for eight and Cole waved dramatically at the Ian Gallagher name card. “I’m more than just a pretty face. You’ve seen my ass, so you know it’s pretty too.”

That chuckle assaulted Ian’s ears again, and his head nearly snapped off his neck as he searched for the owner, who stood across the table from him. This time he actually processed a few things besides the blue eyes and their effect on Ian’s nervous system. He noticed the newly trimmed dark hair, the pale skin, the full lips, the dark suit jacket and grey sweater beneath it. Apparently, he was planning to freely check out more than the guy’s facial features because his eyes continued down his chest toward his dress pants only stopping when Cole’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Rein it in, Loverboy,” he murmured into Ian’s ear then he reached a bedazzled hand across the table toward the blue eyed man who only looked at it. “You can call me Cole.”

“Doubtful.”

Ian’s gaze snapped back up the compact body to his face, memorizing each one of the guy's facial expressions.

“ _You_ ,” the man said, his eyes on Ian, “can call me Mickey.”

“I definitely will.”

The full lips quirked again. “Soon, I hope.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian breathed, understanding for the first time in his life what chemistry actually meant. “You can call me Ian. _Mickey_.”

With a single nod of approval, Mickey pulled a chair out and sat down across from Ian, who wasn’t sure how he was going to eat dinner, listen to speeches, entertain Cole, all without climbing over the table to physically inhale this man.

Several other people arrived at the table then, and some shuffling happened as they all got seated.

“Sorry, Babe,” Cole said quietly as he pushed Ian down into his chair. “Bank’s closed for business. No kissy kissy until I’ve tasted that divine looking wedding cake. Did you see the ganache? If you don’t orgasm from simply looking at little blue eyes over there, then you certainly will while watching me eat that cake.”

“Hi everyone! I’m Beverly.” A brunette in a strapless sundress, who had clearly already made multiple trips to the bar, scanned the occupants of the table then turned toward Mickey, red lips primed to make small talk.

“You can call him Cole,” Mickey said, gesturing toward the man who was unpinning his netted beret with great fanfare.

She squealed in delight, waving at Cole before pointing at Ian. “And _what_ can I call him?” Her voice had taken on a not so subtle suggestive tone which didn’t seem to interest the petite woman beside her, since she didn’t look up from her phone.

“John,” Mickey replied.

Ian looked down at his name card because the ridiculous grin on his face should have been embarrassing, but there was no room in his body for any emotion besides the one he was currently feeling. It filled every crack and crevice and had to be seeping from his pores.

“Sorry, excuse me. I’m Byron.” A small redheaded guy waved at the table as he pushed between Mickey and Beverly, adjusting his chair to join them. “Did you get me a glass of Chardonnay?”

“Uh,” Mickey said. “I musta misheard ya.”

“Seriously?”

Running a finger along his dark brow, Mickey muttered, “Yeah, got you this.” He slid the fruity drink toward the man.

“What is it?”

Since Ian knew what Mickey was about to say, he zeroed in on the man’s lips, anticipation skipping over his skin. “Sex on the beach.”

Cole slipped three fingers into his water glass then flicked them in Ian’s face. “I’m serious about that cake, bitch.”

“I’ll just go get a glass myself then.” Byron started to stand.

“Jesus, sit,” Mickey muttered, pushing his chair back. “I’ll get it, princess.”

Cole raised his cocktail glass in what appeared to be a salute. “Byron, they are delish. You should try.”

Noticing now that all eyes were on him, Byron lifted the drink to his lips only grimacing slightly. “Mm, yes.”

Mickey settled back in his seat, and Ian squeezed Cole’s leg in thank you.

“Although I don’t really recommend sex on a beach. Sand is a bitch, amirite?” Cole’s husky snicker was drowned out by the traditional wedding march blasting from the sound system. The guests all stood and turned toward the French doors where the grooms waited to enter. Ian had no intention of wasting his time staring at his ex-boyfriend and the man he married when he could stare at the back of Mickey’s head.

 _Holy shit!_ It was the back of the guy from Starbucks! The one he’d sniffed like some kinky stalker and had thought about on more than one occasion over the last few weeks. The memory sent a highly charged message to his nerve endings and he swallowed nervously.

Cole slipped his arm through Ian’s, hugging it tightly. “Love is in the air, bitch,” he sighed in some kind of Southern accent Ian had never heard before.

 _Love_. The word pinballed through Ian’s brain. This whole thing was starting to fuck him up, and he felt like he might need to escape, to get some air or something. His finger dug into the knot of his tie, yanking it loose in a fit of desperation.

The guests were slowly returning to their seats, and a small army of servers trooped in through the back doors carrying plates of salad and bottles of wine.

Mickey turned toward Ian, eyes meeting across the table and Ian relaxed. Whatever irrational panic that had swamped his body evaporated, and Ian dropped into his chair in relief as a couple of servers arrived at their table.

“Looks like you got your fucking Chardonnay, Byron.”

The redhead looked at Mickey, cheeks turning a light pink as he glanced around the table then up to the server who offered to pour him a glass. “Thank you.”

When the server arrived at Beverly’s elbow, she requested he leave the entire bottle and winked at Byron. As the eight guests finished their salad, Beverly finished the bottle of wine, Byron purposefully ignored his date, and Ian tried to find something to look at besides Mickey while Cole nattered in his ear.

“So...remember those knock off Uggs that Andre tried to pawn off on me like I’m some sort of fashion _disaster_?”

Ian nodded vaguely, mind drifting to the end of the evening and what he’d have to do to ensure that he didn’t leave alone. While it seemed like Mickey was into him and not the guy he’d arrived with, it also seemed impossible that his feelings could be anywhere as intense as Ian’s.

“If I’m not mistaken, this is the ‘ex’ table,” Beverly piped up as the salad plates were being removed.

“The fuck?” Mickey said harshly, earning yet another disgruntled look from his date.

Beverly leaned forward, elbows resting on the white linen so she could glace around Byron to see Mickey. “Yes, I used to date Caleb.”

“Congrats,” Mickey said.

“It was a while back,” she explained as though the man were interested. “Three summers ago.”

 _Three summers?_ “That can’t be right,” Ian countered, even while he suspected that it could in fact actually be right. “I was _living_ with him three summers ago.”

“Oops,” she giggled.

Mickey snorted. “Oops, my ass.”

Cole hefted his refilled cocktail into the air. “I’ll drink to that!”

“You’ll drink to what?” Mickey narrowed his eyes but Cole only snickered.

Ian was actually less concerned over Caleb cheating than he was over the fact that Mickey might have dated him. Might have...fucked him. He felt Cole’s fingers on his thigh this time.

“As Ian’s chaperone for the evening, I have not had the honor of shagging either of those fine thoroughbreds...how about you _Mickey_?”

Ian’s eyes shot to Cole then helplessly to Mickey as he waited for a response.

The dark eyebrows knotted together and the full lips pursed then parted so his tongue could swipe over them. “Markovich and I...hooked up years ago,” he muttered.

“You never told me that.” Byron frowned. “You said you worked with the man.”

“I do work with the fucking guy,” he snapped.

“I knew it!” Beverly giggled. “This isn’t my first ‘ex’ table.”

All eyes turned to the remaining couple at the table, a man and woman old enough to be either of the grooms’ parents. The woman gave the man a hard look, and he shook his head, hands raised in front of him. “I used to be Caleb’s accountant.”

The remainder of dinner and speeches saw Byron and Beverly polish off another bottle of chardonnay. Mickey’d gone to the bar twice bringing back two beers each time and setting one in front of Ian. If he wasn’t so fucking gone for the brunet, Ian might have pitied Byron who clearly felt the sting of Mickey’s neglect. Cole, on the other hand, beamed at Mickey whenever he returned.

After the dinner plates were cleared, the grooms made their way to the cake amidst a sea of phone camera flashes, and Cole whooped as the men fed each other cake and posed for a million pictures.

Then the servers were back, depositing slices of cake at each place setting and Cole wasted no time stuffing a bite into his mouth. He moaned. Loudly. Ian bit his lip, side-eying him.

“Ohhhhh,” he moaned again, swiping his tongue slowly over each tine of the fork before digging in for a second bite. “Iaaaaaaan. Divine.”

“Yup,” Ian agreed, eyes on his plate and only his plate. “Good stuff.”

“A hint of raspberry.” He continued to moan as he held out his fork to Ian. “You must try the icing.”

Ian waved him off. “I’m good, got my own.”

But he was on a mission and the fork, loaded with chocolate ganache and some sort of truffle, arrived at Ian’s mouth by way of some crude airplane noises. “Open sesame.”

Ian’s eyes skipped across the table toward Mickey’s despite every attempt to avoid his amused gaze. It was worth it though because Ian got a glimpse of the honest to god smile on Mickey’s face before his hand came up to wipe it away.

That was the moment that Ian knew, and when you know, you know. He needed to be wherever this man was for as long as he would have him.

Turning back to Cole, he opened his mouth enough for the fork full of cake to slip inside, then the ridiculous, wonderful man he’d brought to this wedding as his date pulled the fork out slowly making sure to run it along Ian’s lower lip. The liqueur flavored icing and raspberry truffle held up to all the hype Cole had given them, and Ian moaned once quietly as it started to melt in his mouth.

Cole smiled hugely, his shiny lips clearly self-congratulatory, then Ian flicked one quick glance at Mickey while he swiped a thumb over his lower lip where the fork had just been. The amused smile was gone and in its place was heat. Ian almost choked on the remaining cake.

"Jesus," Beverly said, fanning her face with a napkin and hollering at the server, "I'll need two pieces of that cake!"

The MC’s voice boomed over the sound system. “Can I get everyone’s attention? Please welcome the happy couple to the dance floor for their first dance.”

While the guests did just that and the grooms walked onto the dance floor, Cole sniffled and pawed through his satin clutch. “Where my handkerchief at?”

Mickey took the final drag from his cigarette, dropping it to the paving stone beneath his foot. He blew smoke into the night sky while studying the stars and wondering what lay beyond them. A couple hours ago, his answer would have been jack shit, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Now Ian Gallagher existed, and that changed everything for Mickey. No one on this planet would label him a romantic--and live to talk about it--but he was forced to adjust his position on love at first sight. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. No fucking way.

But he was having trouble not admitting it to himself. When he’d heard a voice order a fucking sex on the beach, he was transported back to that morning at Starbucks. One glance at the guy’s hands and he’d been slapped in the face with emotions that he could barely name.

Something had brought them back together, and Mickey wondered if it was something more than coincidence. Either way, he was going for it.

He pushed away from the wall and headed back into the reception hall. Dance music assaulted his ears and atrocious dancing assaulted his eyes, but he spotted Ian immediately, gyrating like an idiot while his ridiculous date twerked his ass at the chicks from their table. The disco lights reflected off the guy’s red tousled hair, and he’d lost both his jacket and tie about three songs into the dance-a-thon.

Grabbing his beer from the table, Mickey plopped down into a vacant chair intending to watch the show and plot the seduction of Ian Gallagher. Not that he suspected it would take much effort but he was going to do it right. The plot consisted of more than just getting him naked, although that was a damn good place to start.

Ian was laughing and bopping around but his attention had been on Mickey since he’d returned from having his smoke, and that was seriously heady shit. He sucked back a third of his beer to moisten his dry mouth and swiped his tongue over his lip where the beer had pooled.

With one hand behind his head, Ian turned in Mickey’s direction, rolling his hips to the beat. He looked like a goofy kid and Mickey wanted to throw him over his shoulder on his way out the front door.

But instead fucking Byron entered his line of sight, ignoring Mickey as he made his way toward the men’s room. A tiny twinge of regret pinged but Mickey ignored it like Byron ignored him. The guy knew what he was getting by agreeing to date Mickey, and he wasn’t pretending to be some intellectual knob just to please the dude.

Sure, he hadn’t exactly set the tone for the evening by bursting into laughter when Byron showed up on a mint green scooter instead of the little convertible he’d had last time they’d hooked up. And it didn’t improve matters when Mickey’d forgotten about him while getting seats at the wedding ceremony. By the time, Byron had returned from the powdering his fucking nose, the chairs on either side of Mickey were occupied, and Byron had stood in the aisle like a wounded bird. They’d had to move to a row at the back of the room, which had suited Mickey just fine but apparently added to the guy’s list of grievances.

Him and his pink jacket disappeared around the corner leading to the restrooms, and Mickey returned his attention to the dance floor. When Cole fluttered a hand in Ian’s face and grasped his arm, the pair of them moved toward the restroom like a couple of chicks. Ian grinned at him but didn’t fight it.

Mickey finished his beer, setting the bottle on the table as a wave of something distasteful washed over him and he shot out of his chair. If Ian and Byron were in the toilet at the same time, it had the potential to become a literal and figurative pissing contest. But he hesitated for a second. Did he actually want to get in the middle of it? Could he just wait out here and deal with the aftermath?

Jamming a thumb into his eye socket, he followed the men, aware that he’d suddenly found himself at a goddamn wedding where he was about to enter a men’s room so he could shut down some weird ass love triangle.

Naturally, the first thing he saw when he entered was Cole fluttering around, fists jamming the air in front of him. “Go Mike Tyson on his ass!”

“I think you mean his ear,” Mickey said, coming up beside the guy and rising to his tiptoes to see around the line of men. He caught sight of Gallagher’s red hair, but that was it. “The fuck is going on?”

“Your date done pissed my date off,” Cole explained gleefully. “That boy is not happy with you.”

Mickey dropped back to his heels, so he could glare at Cole. “Which boy?” The idea that Ian was pissed off at him, before they’d even gotten started, made his stomach flop uncomfortably.

“See for yourself.” Cole stepped back so Mickey could squeeze into the space he’d vacated.

Ian had Byron crowded into the corner between the sink and the hand dryer. Even with his back to Mickey, he could read Ian’s body language. Pissed. Byron, on the other hand, looked mortified but unharmed, aside from the hit to ego over whatever Ian had said to him.

“Jesus,” Mickey breathed.

“He was talking shit about you to some dudes when we walked in,” Cole whispered in his ear. “Did you really make the bitch sleep on the floor?”

“Long story,” he muttered, shoving the guy in front of him out of the way and stepping forward. “Hey.”

Ian’s body language changed immediately, and he backed away from Byron before turning toward Mickey. “I--sorry,” he said quietly, eyes skimming all the faces crowded into the men’s room. “He...had it coming though.”

Mickey shrugged. “Probably.”

“I wish I’d never met you,” Byron shouted, slipping past Ian and waving a delicate hand at the men blocking his exit. They parted and he escaped. Mickey figured he’d have to find his own way home tonight and that made him smile.

Several other men followed Byron out since the show was over, and Cole made a flourish of distracting the ones who were still standing around waiting to see what this new development entailed.

“Christ, I don’t know what came over me, Mickey. I’m sorry.” His earnest green eyes really did seem to be asking for forgiveness. “Sorta.”

“Buy me a drink and I’ll think about forgiving you.”

“The drinks are free, so I’d have to do that on a different night.” Ian grinned but led the way out of the restroom.

“What’s your name, sailor?” Cole’s voice followed them out.

The reception was still in full swing, except now there was a small line forming around the luncheon table and that’s the direction Ian took. When he stopped behind a couple of old dudes at the end of the line, Ian finally turned to Mickey. “Why don’t you grab us a couple beers, and I’ll get some food and meet you on the terrace?”

Mickey’s plan to seduce Ian Gallagher now included a sub-section where Ian Gallagher seduced Mickey. “Deal.”

When Mickey exited into the quiet garden area ten minutes later, Ian was already there. He’d found a concrete bench tucked between some big ass shrubs and a heaping plate of finger food sat beside him. Mickey walked toward him, anticipation so thick it might as well have been a living thing between them.

He handed Ian the bottle of beer and sat down on the bench. They watched each other but neither spoke. Ian stuffed a cracker into his mouth and Mickey followed by wrapping a piece of ham around a pickle.

“Interesting choice,” Ian commented.

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

Ian opened his mouth, and Mickey rolled his eyes, but no way in hell was he passing up a chance to put something into the guy’s mouth. His perfect row of teeth nipped off half the pickle, slicing it cleanly and Mickey slipped the rest into his own mouth.

“Mm, not bad,” Ian concluded, then proceeded to build an elaborate tower of cracker, meat, cheese and pickle. “Bet this is better though.”

He stared at Mickey in challenge. Never let it be said that Mickey backed down from a challenge and he opened his mouth. Ian happily stuffed the whole stack between his lips, leaning toward Mickey to watch him eat it. This left them close enough to cross a line into intimate territory and apparently close enough for Ian to sniff him, nostrils flaring slightly as he licked his lips. “Smell good,” he whispered.

_Okay._

Mickey was more than ready to get the fuck out of here, so he stuffed another stack of food into his mouth to hurry things along.

“So what do you do for a living?” Ian asked then laughed like a fool when Mickey pointed to his mouth. “Let me guess. Based on your knuckle tattoos, I say mafia henchman.”

Mickey swiped a hand over his lips. “Close. I work at a mall owned by the Chicago mob.”

“You work at a mall?” Ian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Doing what?”

“Selling ladies lingerie.” They both laughed then. “Security.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” he said happily and for the first time in six years, he truly appreciated his job.

“You’re a medic.”

“Yes! How’d you know?”

“Saw you at Starbucks awhile ago.”

“Right! I saw you too. I was getting coffee for the station.”

“Took all the goddamn dark roast, asshole.”

Ian tilted his head a little. “I don’t peg you as a hipster coffee shop type of guy.”

“I was having a week from hell, which included a trip to Starbucks.”

Sipping their beer, they lapsed into silence again, but it was a revolutionary silence for Mickey because it felt as comfortable as being alone only to a much greater degree.

“You wanna--”

“Let’s get--”

Ian grinned. “Should we get out of here maybe?”

“No maybes about it, man.”

They found a trash can for their garbage and returned to the party, but before they could push aside chairs to reach their table where they’d left various articles of clothing, Ian was yanked off course and into the chaos of the dancers.

Cole had formed a circle of drunken debauchery that apparently wasn’t complete without Ian, but Mickey shot the lot of them the finger when they tried to get him to join.

As Ian literally jumped around to the song _Jump Around_ , he shrugged helplessly and Mickey just shook his head. As Ian lifted a finger to indicate he’d only be a second, the song ended, replaced by a much slower melody.

Cole’s band of revelers melted away, forming pairs or heading outside for air, but Ian remained where he was as Elvis started singing. They stared at each other, definitely having their first battle of wills. Ian brought his fingers up to his chin in a prayer position, lips forming a silent plea, and Mickey lost what he was sure to be the first of many battles.

He stepped forward, feet on the dance floor for the first time all evening. Ian waited motionless as the song swelled around them. Like some kind of ridiculous rom com, Ian lifted his hand at the same moment Elvis belted out the request to take his hand. He glanced from the open palm to Ian’s eyes.

“Take my whole life too,” he sang, lips moving along with the lyrics. He didn’t mouth the next line, which thank god or Mickey might have fled, but he did reach out to grasp Mickey’s fingers the second he started to lift them.

It probably didn’t come as a shock to Ian any more than it did to Mickey that their first physical contact felt like a match touching gasoline. He’d known it would and had kept his distance all night. That shit belonged behind closed doors, but apparently they were touching for the first time in front of nearly 100 people, and Mickey barely noticed.

Ian’s fingers wrapped around his, tugging gently until they stood a couple inches apart. The song was half over and they had yet to engage in a single dance move, which was of course fine with Mickey since he only had one dance move and it wasn’t going to seduce Ian Gallagher.

When Ian’s palm pressed into his lower back and he raised their joined hands to his chest, Mickey brought his free hand to the back of Ian’s neck. He knew where this was going to end and he smiled.

Ian’s lips touched his and he swayed his hips, taking Mickey’s along for the ride. They kept it chaste, tongues behaving, for the ten second duration of the kiss. Then Ian pulled back, resting his forehead against Mickey’s.

“Somethings are meant to be…”

Chance stood in the shadows, watching the fireworks on the dance floor. This wasn’t, as the Americans liked to say, his first rodeo. He’d seen his share of shit but never anything quite like this.

It wasn’t the chemistry nor the sweetness of watching two men fall in love. It was the way they fit together, forming a bond that he now understood was the universe’s intention all along.

He lifted a knuckle to his lower lid and, to his utter amazement, it came away wet.

“Is that a tear?”

He whipped his head to the left in horror that he’d been discovered in such a vulnerable moment and by Fate, no less.

“Of course not,” he spat. “That’s your department.”

“Since that’s true, I know a tear when I see one.” She gave him a dismissive eye roll, then turned her attention to the two men swaying slightly on the dance floor. “I’m riding my victory wave, and even you can’t mess with that.

“Since when did you become such a romantic?” Chance asked, certain that he could in fact mess with her serenity if he chose to. “Far cry from Death.”

“Is it?” she challenged. “I’m sure they feel like their old selves no longer exist. Reborn from the ashes of their former selves.”

“Romantic _and_ touchy feely?”

“Serenity,” she repeated, and Chance decided to back off. He wasn’t as immune as he’d once believed.

“Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?” he murmured.

She scoffed at him. “Quoting the bard now, are you?”

“Maybe I’m not the monster you make me out to be.”

She scoffed again, but this time while she looked at him. “It really took no effort on my part. You managed it all on your own.”

He clucked his tongue, as always enjoying her pique far too much. “To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.”

“Stop playing with me! I’m trying to enjoy my victory and your smug face is ruining it,” she hissed and he delighted in that fire. Not in the way it made her feel but in the way it made him feel. It gave him a sense of purpose.

“Forgive me?”

She turned completely toward him, face a mask of disbelief. “Has Hell frozen over? Because I didn’t get that memo.”

“Cruel, darling, haven’t you heard of second chances?”

“Fool me once…” she hesitated obviously remembering the unfortunate outcome the last time they’d tried to work together. “Shame on me.”

The sappy love song ended and the two men on the dance floor broke apart, looking around the reception hall in surprise. Chance watched them gather their things, wave a good-bye and exit out the French doors into the night.

Fate followed them, clearly not ready to let them go even though they no longer needed her. Chance made a decision in that moment, one that shocked him as much as it was going to shock her.

He found her hovering around the couple like a mother hen, while they made their way down the garden path toward the busy downtown street.

“I’m not going to interfere in their lives again,” he yelled out from several feet away.

She slowed but kept her eyes trained on the men. “Why?”

“Does it matter why?” he snapped, wanting, expecting, hoping for a different reaction. “I thought you’d be delighted.”

“I would be if I trusted you.”

He actually flinched a little at that, worried that he’d somehow unleashed a sensitive side that he’d never be able to rein in again.

“I thought you were a true believer, Chance,” she accused mockingly, unafraid now to face him. “Free will. Randomness. Any of this ring a bell?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll have plenty of obstacles just not in their relationship.”

She studied him. “Again, I ask you why.”

“Can you imagine what it feels like to have no purpose?” he said quietly. “For your role in all this to be at best random, at worst chaotic.”

“Can you imagine what it feels like to be ignored?” she challenged. “For your divine purpose to be _luck_.”

“Maybe we could...work together,” he offered.

“What?” Her scoffing had returned. “So we can single handedly destroy humankind?”

“Well, I don’t think we could take all the credit since they are doing a marvelous job of that on their own.”

She nodded. “Then they don’t need any help.”

Neither were able yet to traverse the tentative bridge that was forming between them, so they continued to follow the two men as they paused on a bridge of their own overlooking the Chicago river, shoulders pressed together.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Their lives are a beautifully messy...puzzle, and we can help them by helping each other.”

“I still don’t understand why. What’s changed?”

“Me.” He turned his attention to the men who were laughing about something, evoking a wave of envy that they’d figured out their purpose. “Those two belong together.”

“Ha! You expect me to believe _you’re_ a romantic all of a sudden?” she shook her head. “Nope.”

He released a bark of laughter. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. But I am a believer in probabilities.”

He had her attention finally. “The extent to which it is likely that something will happen,” she stated.

“Precisely. The likelihood of those two finding each other each time they return here as mortals are odds I’d take any day.”

“So you actually do believe in something.”

“Shocking, but yes.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Can you really trust anyone?” When she started to get riled up, he laughed. “Jokes. I guess we’ll have to call it...a leap of faith.”

She sighed, sending a gust of wind along the path toward their two favorite humans, and the redhead draped his arm over the other man’s shoulder.

“Fine, but I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the cosmos if you f*ck with me.” She held out her hand.

“I’d expect nothing less, darling.”

He wrapped his hand around hers and a clack of lightning split the skies. The two men ran toward the row of buildings, pushing and jostling each other the whole way.

“What the Hell?” Chance said, tugging his hand back toward himself.

“Not even close,” a voice boomed behind them. Together, they turned, mouths metaphorically hanging open.

“Is that…” Chance whispered, awestruck for the first time in his celestial life, “who I think it is?”

“Yes,” Fate whispered back.

The deity’s glorious grey hair spread out around her serene face as she surveyed her charges. “This visit is a long time coming,” she announced. “I’ve been watching the two of you flounder around since Eros was in diapers.”

Chance shot a look at Fate and she shrugged.

“Do you know who I am?” she demanded. They nodded in unison. “Do you understand why I’m here now?”

“Because,” Fate began, “we decided to work together?”

“Correct!” She leaned toward Fate. “You are the brains of this organization and don’t forget it.”

Chance bristled, opening his mouth to make a case for his own brains, but she lifted a majestic finger and his lips sealed on their own.

“Hush,” she said to him. “Let me explain.”

She spread her arms wide, the skies parting to release soft pellets of rain. Her smile was equally soft as she watched the mortals press into the first doorway and into each other, safe from the rain.

“That’s better,” she sighed, then refocused her attention on the beings in front of her. “As I was saying, when a Fate reaches maturity she becomes Wisdom, the path that leads our mortals wherever they need to go. You, my dear, are their experience, knowledge and judgment.”

She took Fate’s hands in her own, bestowing that smile on his new partner. “Never doubt your importance. It is a sad existence, indeed, when wisdom is absent.”

Fate nodded then stepped aside.

“Chance,” her voice held a sterner tone and he bowed his head in acknowledgment. “When Chance matures, he becomes Opportunity. The unexpected turns they find along the way.”

“Wisdom and Opportunity,” Fate repeated and a spark ignited in Chance.

“Serendipity,” he whispered.

“At your service,” the deity announced, and the three of them turned to the men. The rain still fell, in waves now, but they were lost in each other. “One might think the universe had a divine plan.”


End file.
